


my heart is a prison half the time

by aellesiym



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist!Crowley, Canon Timeline, M/M, Pining, art as a long winded metaphor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 18:38:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20232508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aellesiym/pseuds/aellesiym
Summary: Crowley starts drawing in the 1600s. But there's one person he just can't get right – or more accurately, one angel.





	my heart is a prison half the time

It was only after Leonardo da Vinci's death that Crowley began to take interest in the arts. Or, more accurately, creating art; the urge to make something, anything, surfacing after the centennial anniversary of his death. Crowley had convinced himself it was because he wanted to fill a void; the gap left by his friend's passing, but in reality, it was probably boredom. The humans basically did his job for him, and for that matter, it was usually better than what he could accomplish himself. Sometimes he would add a little pizzazz, that personal touch, but on most days he was simply bored.

Bored, and lonely.

Human lives were so, so short. For beings of such passion and vigour, they flared out so soon, leaving their own minuscule mark on the canvas of time, the paint barely dried before they shuffled off the mortal coil. Doing so much, with so little. They never seemed to stick around for very long, and they were never seen again afterwards – at least not by him.

The stars, at least, could keep him company.

He would perch on the rooftops of London, night after night, listening to the starlight, letting it translate to the motions of his wrist. Sometimes, the strokes would be particularly careful, each line exact and crisp. Usually, they were wild and haphazard, only capturing the outlines and the shapes.

The next night, he'd find a new vantage point, a new spire or unattended balcony – once, on the moon – and he'd sit, charcoal in hand. He'd sketch the buildings with a careless touch, the sinuous river in graceful curves, dark, furious streaks of graphite across the blank parchment. The wind would howl over the city, rustling his hair, his clothes, a sharp chill punctuating every flick of his fingers. It was always so, so cold, but the cold, at the very least, could sweep away his thoughts, could stop the wandering tread of his mind, could banish the image of feathery white wings.

But, as with everything, Crowley grew bored. And by that point, he had accumulated a towering stack of papers, precariously balanced atop his desk, collecting dust, documenting the decades and decades of London past. The only mess in the flat.

He burnt them all; started anew. Started sketching the people that populated the streets, from the wealthy gentlemen to the lonesome beggar, to the paperboy and the merchants; capturing the minute differences of humanity in their noses, their hips, their forearms; postures and gaits and hair. He sat in cafes, in carriages, in parks, watching life stream by him in waves; the morning rush, the noontime jostle, the afternoon lull and the evening crowd; passing him by without so much of a glance.

Crowley is unable to remember when he first added colour, but once he did, he was obsessed, copying his sketches to canvas and painting over. There were verdigris eyes, vermillion red hair, rosy carmine and lead white cheeks; there was the scrape of his brush over the rough fabric, filling in large swaths of the canvas with iridescent colours. There was not, however, anyone with dandelion-puff hair, azurite eyes, nor soft, plump hands.

Not, at least, until he moved back in town.

When Aziraphale opened his bookshop in Soho, Crowley began to visit him, sometimes bringing his sketchbook and pencils. He'd prop his legs up on the sofa and finish his sketches, sipping the tea that Aziraphale had poured for him, while Aziraphale curled up on the other side of the sofa and read.

A snapshot: An angel and a demon, together, in a dimly lit bookshop, the warm glow of the candles doing little to pierce the shadows, the heavy vanilla scent of old, old books, the scratch of a pencil moving across paper, steaming mugs, turning pages.

* * *

One night, Crowley runs out of sketches to refine and he draws absentmindedly, letting his thoughts wander around the shop. Streaks of feathers and wings arch across the page, divinely ordained, sharp and neat. Smooth curves, rounded shapes, gleaming eyes. An angel.

Aziraphale.

He wants to burn it, as he does with all of his past drawings, the ones with mistakes.

He can't.

Instead, he takes it home, placing it by the easel. Stares at it for a while. Goes to sleep.

He wakes before dawn, jolted out of his dreams. The sun is beginning to claw its way over the horizon, a slight tinge of orange spreading across the blue-grey sky, spilling over like water. His gaze catches the sketch and he makes his way over, trying to still the turmoil in his heart, a roiling, furious sea. Against his better judgement, he copies it to the canvas, thinking, hoping, _ it'll look right with some colour _.

And so he dips a brush in cobalt blue, softened with lime white, tracing the flicks and the strokes, dragging its bristles over the pencil marks. Dabs of pigment swirl together, mixing, forming the milky folds of cloth, the angelic curls of his hair. And yet, Crowley's unsatisfied – there's something missing. He thinks it's the eyes; that they're without some kind of mischievous sparkle.

Even so, the painting is finished – and he tucks it away into a chest, hiding it from view.

The thought doesn't scurry away, though, the thought that the painting is less than magnificent, less than Aziraphale. It doesn't disappear when he next visits the bookshop, blank sheets and pencils in hand. He tries to capture the ease in which Aziraphale sits, the contours of his figure, the peaceful expression upon his face; almost succeeds.

Something's still absent. Lines are inadequate. Aziraphale turns and smiles at him fondly, letting him draw in silence.

When Crowley leaves for the night, his hands are twitching, his heart empty.

The bed feels colder than usual.

* * *

Later, there is the debacle with the holy water.

Crowley trudges home, his head pounding. There's anger, mostly at himself; but there's also a whirlpool of blue, a great tangle of emotions that he doesn't feel like unravelling. As he steps into the flat, he's greeted by the sketch, rough and incomplete, mocking. Sighing, he picks it up and sets it aflame and flops down onto his bed, content to sleep away the century.

There are tears streaming down his face when he closes his eyes.

* * *

Crowley tries again after he wakes, but finds Aziraphale's image impossible to grasp. Always slightly out of reach; close enough that he can't see the problem.

* * *

After the whole _thing _with the end of the world, Crowley finds himself in Aziraphale's bookshop once more, sprawled across the sofa; sketching. He watches Aziraphale pad across the shop, humming to himself as he makes tea for the both of them; imagines his unfurled wings, pearlescent against the candlelight.

This time, Crowley finishes the painting. It's still lacking – despite modern pigments and an ever-growing collection of brushes – and he puts it away when it dries, banished into the chest.

* * *

Sometimes, now, Aziraphale stays over at Crowley's flat, drinking late into the night. Despite Armageddon, despite everything, Aziraphale is unable to find the words he wants to say – not even when they are fantastically drunk. And when Crowley eventually dozes off, Aziraphale settles into the armchair with a book in hand, searching.

One night, having turned to the last page, Aziraphale runs out of reading material. He rises from the sofa and makes his way over to the easel, running his fingers along the polished wood; wonders why it has been shunted off into the corner. He's seen it before, on previous visits, but never in use. But when he looks closer, there are flecks of paint splattered across the edges, along the sides.

He'll ask Crowley about it in the morning.

He doesn't really get a chance to, as he spies an ancient, wrought iron chest.

Maybe there will be books in it.

* * *

Day breaks to the scent of coffee brewing, an earthy fragrance wafting through the air. The kitchen is empty, the kettle piping hot. Crowley pours himself a cup and promptly burns his tongue, hissing in annoyance. He's not paying attention when he walks into the lounge, his mind still addled with sleep.

Glances up.

There, lying on the table, half-obscured by a beam of sunlight. A painting.

It's his painting, and yet it isn't; there's Aziraphale, radiant, wings like woven diamonds – but there, beside him, by the angel: a figure, in dark, inky swirls; alizarin scarlet and cadmium yellow coiling together, forming amber strands that twist down his neck; ivory black wings, glittering like obsidian, like a moonless night.

His painting, finally complete.


End file.
